Medical-surgical Nursing Test Bank

Italy: land of travelers, poets, saints and heroes - 2


poets in a trilogy about social policy today is strange. Today
true poets are hidden well. And mostly they do other jobs.
And who writes, or rather, the writer and earning good money with what he writes, does not write about politics, not writing about social problems, not writing about life, and to be honest, not even written in proper Italian.
Thus, those very few Italians who chose, by chance, to give him to the press rather than dazed in front of the TV, do not run the risk of being still in his hands too much material for thought.
Moreover since even the glorious Einaudi has passed into the hands of the emperor, any ambition is dead.
And so, we people of poets, no longer even speak in prose. Fat that runs if we speak in capital letters.
In memory of our past and the poet Eugenio Montale


RAINS

rains. It is a trickle without

thuds of scooters or
screams of children.


rains from a cycle that has
clouds.

rains on anything you do in these hours of

general strike.


raining on your grave
San Felice a Ema

and earth trembles

earthquake because there is no war.


not raining on the tale of distant
beautiful seasons, but the folder

tax collection
rains on cuttlebone,
and national manger.


rains in the Official Gazette
here from the balcony open,
rains on Parliament
raining on via Solferino,
rain without the wind
smuova cards.


rains in the absence of Hermione
God willing, it rains because the absence


is universal and if the earth does not tremble
Arcetri is because she has not ordered
.

rains on the new primate of the epistemic
to two feet,
Indian man, the sky,
optimized, the ugly face of theologians in suit

or swamps,

rains on the progress of the dispute, it rains on
works in regress ,
rains
the cypresses of the cemetery
sick, dripping
public opinion.

rains, yet it is not
water or air, raining as if you're not

is just the lack
and may drown.